A chance to say goodbye

Recently I received a Facetime call on the beach.

It was a beautiful morning full of sun-sparkles on the shallow still water of the estuary. Pelicans hanging out on the sandspit in small groups. They looked like they had gathered together for a chance to bask in the late winter sun on their way north or south. The air was full of the smell of eucalypts warming themselves into the day; their leaves rustling as the wind caught them, gently stirring them as the breeze swirled in the air. The water softly lapped at the edge of the sand, barely creating a wave in the moment before and after the call.

In the distance the sound of a dog left by their owner. Gently barking to remind anyone listening it was there. I exist. Don't forget me.

My own dog is walking with me. We had been to the park and played our version of fetch where I throw the ball, he runs after it and then runs until he's ready to give it back. He loves the game and his body is already tired but he knows the best is still to come. He waits with patience as I undo his long lead and release him to run in the ocean. It's his favourite part of any walk. Today is no exception.

He sprints towards the water, already his tongue flopping out of his mouth in open-gaped happiness. He looks back towards me, runs again and again simply ecstatic to be free of the lead and feeling the water slosh against his long legs. He dips his head down and inhales for scents on the surface. I take deep slow breaths pulling the fresh salty air into my lungs and enjoying the pause in my day.

There is noone else near.

Time slows down and my body starts to unwind as the world drifts away and it's only me, the sun, the breeze, the ocean, the pelicans and my dog. The opportunity to clear my mind and stand in the moment is as good as any meditation.

The moment of peacefulness is broken by the chirupping ring of a Facetime call.

Noone calls me on Facetime in the daytime. Already I'm pulling my body to alertness. It's my Mum calling. Alert pulls to full-blown warning. Something must be very wrong, I know it's only 3am where she is.

I hold the phone in front of me and squint at the screen. How I wish I was wearing my sunglasses; it's so hard to see after the sparkle of the water. It's not a mistake, she meant to call me. Her voice comes through while I move to some shade and hear her say, "Your father is having difficulty breathing, I've called an ambulance. I didn't want you to worry."

This time the world didn't slow with the tranquility of the moment, it slows as I try to make sense of her words in terms of time and place compared with where they are. It is dark on the screen, I thought it was because my eyes were still adjusting but that's not the case. They're in their house, in the bedroom. It's the middle of the night. My Dad is sitting up in bed. I hear his rasping breath. I know that sound does not mean anything good. I ask to speak to him. I know he can't talk back. His breath is fighting to bring air to his body. He doesn't have enough left to speak too. I tell him where I am and what I am doing. I tell him that I love him. I thank him for the wonderful life he gave me. I say that he shouldn't worry because help will be there soon. I know it's not true. I know that although the ambulance is coming it won't get there for a long time due to a lack of staff. I know that the sound his breath is making means that he may well not have time.

Out of the corner of my eye I see that my dog has stopped still and is staring at me. His feet are still planted in the ocean. My Dad loves the ocean. I tell him I'm going to show him something beautiful and I reverse the camera. Light floods onto the screen shining into the darkness of their night lighting up his face. I tell him it's a beautiful day. That the sun is shining on the glassy water as the dog runs and runs with sheer joy and enthusiasm for life.

His breathing stays loud and rasping but a small smile creeps across his face. I see him watching my dog. I see him experience beauty and joy and the sparkle of the open water. I see him become visibly calmer. His shoulders drop a little as they heave to grab oxygen. I don't expect to hear him say anything but I do. In the midst of all the tension and darkness he says his final word to me. It isn't something deep and meaningful, it's an exclamation of joy and pleasure. As he exhales a breath the word "Wow!" escapes across his lips. It's a moment of extreme power. I know that he has seen and understood what I am trying to do.

He loved it here each time he came. He relished the novelty of all we could show him. The similarities to his home but a little step to the left. Not Friesian cows in the fields but Brahmin and Angus. Not summer days full of grey skies but ones full of heat that scorches skin as you move. Not a dull, roaring ocean but one full of gleaming dolphins and rays that swim with grace and peace.

As I see he understands I hear my Mum say she has to go. Her phone is running low on charge, she has to plug it in in case the ambulance station calls back.

I don't want the call to end. I fear so strongly it will be the last time I will see his face and it is so full of joy and contentment. I say I will call back as soon as I am home and start to race back towards the car, calling the dog to me. My Mum ends the call. He leaves the sea and runs to me with reluctance.

As fast as I walk the distance to the car feels unending. My emotions are in a tailspin. People pass by me as I rush in a walking run. I don't really see them as my face feels hot and tears stream down my face. I call my husband and he says he's coming to sit with me at home. I vaguely claw onto hope. I hope my Dad will be in hospital when I get home. I hope I will see an oxygen mask on his face pushing air into his exhausted lungs.

I calm myself with these thoughts as I drive.

I run in the door and let the dog outside. He's confused as I don't come to hose him down as I usually do after a splash in the ocean. Instead I grab him a chew and send him out to bask in the sun.

I open my computer and try to call.

Over the next 10 minutes I call repeatedly. I hope against hope that the emergency staff are there and are saving your breath.

Time stretches again.

My Mum answers my call. What she says strikes me like a blow to my chest forcing me down into a nearby chair. "The ambulance staff are here but his heart stopped and I had to do CPR until they got here."

I stay on the call with her, persuading her to call someone else to come and sit with her who can physically hold her hand. 45 minutes later a member of the 3 attending crews comes through to the kitchen and says that your heart has re-started 3 times but you cannot sustain life.

I am conscious of my own breath as I stay on the call and speak with my Mum and the ambulance staff. There is dignity in the room and love. You died knowing you were loved and that even those who didn't know you recognised your persistence and desire to hold onto life as it disappeared from you. Your heart was strong but your lungs were not. You experienced beauty and wonder in your last waking moments of life. Your life had meaning.

Life forever changes as William Barton plays Kalkadungu on the radio behind me and the dog sprawls on his bed in the sun.